


Sweet Mara

by wickedthoughts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begging, Blasphemy, Cunnilingus, Empty Vessels, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Forest Sex, Human Naomi, Naomi Lives, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Queen of Hell Abaddon, Rain, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4866947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedthoughts/pseuds/wickedthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This world is so strange, a study in contradictions that Naomi both loves and despises. She can't wait until her Queen burns it all to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Mara

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN Femslash Bingo](http://spnfemslashbingo.tumblr.com/about) square "Sugar"
> 
> Title inspired by [Ruth 1:20](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ruth+1%3A20&version=NIV)
> 
> I miss my amoral and immoral Queens.

* * *

The forest is dark even though it’s the middle of the day. Heavy rain is falling from thick clouds, warm and wet on her vessel’s skin. It soaks through Naomi’s clothes and they cling to her, paper thin, the outline of a beige bra and the pale pink blush of skin visible through the white shirt. Strands of her auburn hair detach from her carefully constructed bun, falling in her face and down the back of her neck. Her instinct to get out of the surprise shower is superseded by more pressing matters.

“Come here, sugar.”

Abaddon is standing before her in the same deluge, flowing crimson mane sleek against her skull. She’s as drenched as Naomi, but her clothes are black. They may contour invitingly to her stolen body, but they reveal nothing of the skin beneath. Naomi wants to rip them off and rectify that.  

 _Sugar,_ Abaddon calls her. The lusty purr of her voice, the warmth of her breath against the skin of Naomi’s vessel as Abaddon closes the gap between them and buries her painted lips in the crook of Naomi’s neck, send shivers down Naomi’s back.

_I am not sugar. I am divine wrath, I am a howling chasm, I am a supernova wrapped in human skin. I am not sugar, there is nothing sweet about me._

She doesn’t speak her thoughts. They’re not true, not entirely. Not anymore. She’s _fallen, graceless,_ other words that would make her tremble with shame and rage if she were not already trembling with excitement at what Abaddon’s lips and tongue are doing to her clavicle now that her nimble fingers have unbuttoned the top few buttons of Naomi’s blouse. She’s not human, she’ll never be human, but she’s as good as. She’s trapped in this prison of flesh, the poor soul who’d lent it to her ejected into the heavenly realms when Metatron had ripped Naomi’s angelic essence from her chest. She can’t think of this body as just a vessel any longer. This is _her_ skin, _her_ bones, _her_ desire swelling as heavy and wet as the rain between her legs.

Metatron will pay for that. She should have killed him as soon as she’d dug the information from his spiteful mind, but she’d tried to save him as she always did. That had been her downfall. Naomi’s done trying to fix everything. Old as she is, she’s still capable of growth and change. No more chances. Not for any of them.

_Nothing sweet about me._

Some of her thoughts are truth after all.

Perhaps it’s the demon’s influence on her. Abaddon has no restrictions. She’s the same ancient, evil creature she’s been for eons. The same ancient, evil, _beautiful_ creature Naomi found herself impiously captivated by on a bloody battlefield millennia ago. Her vessel is as empty as Naomi’s, reconstructed after its immolation when its former occupant left it for her final resting place. When they come together in this strange, wonderful human way it’s _their_ skin, _their_ bones, _their_ desire. Theirs.

Abaddon makes a high, strained noise of frustrated pleasure against the underside of Naomi’s chin as she gropes at Naomi’s clothed breasts. Naomi can feel it everywhere in this peculiar body. In her rushing head, in her fluttering heart. In the clench of her stomach, the hardening of her nipples, and the tingle of blood in her clit. The rain is becoming oppressive, getting in her newly limited eyes, but Abaddon doesn’t seem to notice the storm at all and Naomi doesn’t want to interrupt the moment for anything. _Need_ and _want_ beat a tattoo inside her as tangible as the pounding of the sinewy organ in her ribcage.

Naomi’s always skirted the line of freedom and choice. She had to, what with her job. When she’d been in charge she’d been afforded leniency in those matters as opposed to the majority of the angels, but it had never been about what she wanted. It had been about duty, about Heaven. Not anymore.

“Take your clothes off.”

The demon’s voice is sweet and clear, the undercurrent of power singing in Naomi’s eardrums as Abaddon’s tongue snakes its way up her cheek after her admonition. The potential Queen of Hell is used to having her orders obeyed, much like Naomi. The difference between them is Naomi never wanted the type of power that Abaddon covets. The stress of authority is something she’s been burdened with for far too long. She’s more than happy to give it over to Abaddon and comply with her directives.

Abaddon steps back and ogles greedily as Naomi peels off her sodden garments. She sheds everything but her tall pumps. Abaddon likes her to wear them. The weeping sky pours over her nakedness and she wants to imagine the rain washing away her sins, past and future, but that’s ridiculous. She may be fallen, but she’s not stupid. There’s no forgiveness for her, there never will be, for all she’s done in pursuit of the love of her fickle Father. She’s gone too far, she knows that now, and that’s why she’d sought out this glorious demon when she’d woken, graceless and in pain, in the mud of this insignificant little planet to which she’ll forever be constrained. She has nothing to lose. She hadn’t made a deal with Abaddon, not formally, not without a human soul to sell. No soul, but she has her body and her mind, and she offers them as freely to her Queen now as she’d offered them the first time she’d knelt at Abaddon’s feet. She’s given the demon her power, knowledge, and fealty. Her skin, lips, tongue, breasts, and cunt.

So perhaps she’s made a deal after all. She’s unbothered by the notion. The rain begins to lessen as if reacting to her thoughts, as it once might have when she was an angel. The summer storm leaves as quickly as it arrived, and with it her foolish fantasies of redemption. The sun peeks over a cloud, illuminating the figures in their secluded forest grove, one naked, one clothed. It will soon become uncomfortably humid.

 “Beautiful,” Abaddon’s eyes are black and bottomless as the Pit she calls home. “My beautiful angel. All mine.”

“Yes, all yours.”

Abaddon begins taking off her own clothes. She rips off the wet fabric with her enhanced strength and kicks off her heeled boots, bringing her down from Naomi’s eye level. Their vessels are of a similar height when Naomi’s not wearing stilettos, but the added three inches make her feel powerful even sunk in the mud as she is. Illogical, but she clings to the feeling. She has no wings, no divine light, but she still has some power. She has absurd carnal power over this demon. More blood surges between her legs, and her muscles clench in unbearable need.

“On your knees.”

Naomi obeys. Obedience is freeing. Abaddon steps forward with a noise of hunger, long and guttural, and thrusts her pelvis in Naomi’s face. Raindrops cling to the wild tangle there, as bright vermillion as the hair on her head or the color of her lips and fingernails. Naomi can hear the silence of the rain-soaked forest breaking way for tentative birdsong and the chirping of insects, their own mating rituals having been interrupted by the rain that couldn’t stop Naomi and her Queen. The scent of earthy mud and growing green things, reminiscent of the first scents her graceless nostrils had smelled in this world, threaten to overwhelm her, but then all she can smell is the musky perfume of Abaddon’s sex that the demon presses against Naomi’s lips. Naomi parts them gladly and she licks and sucks at the sensitive little bundle of nerves nestled between the folds of skin.

Abaddon grasps at the back of Naomi’s wet, disheveled head and shrieks with pleasure. Her screams are so different, and so much more fulfilling than the screams of Naomi’s siblings when she’d used her instrument on them. All of Naomi’s senses are eclipsed by this beautiful devil. She sees the red of Abaddon’s pubic hair, flashes of her pale white skin beneath. She tastes the acidic tang of Abaddon’s cunt, that dripping offering given just for her, mixed with the purity of residual rainwater. She can no longer hear the songs of the forest or smell its wet renewal, all she smells is Abaddon’s arousal and all she hears is the song of her lover’s passion. Naomi can’t remember the heavenly chorus ever sounding so magnificent.  

_Fallen. Graceless. Human. Blasphemer. Shameful._

She can’t feel the sting of the words or the guilt she’d stifled for billions of years. Instead, she feels the blood inside this body- _her_ body- moving in billowing contractions between her legs that are at once infuriating and pleasurable. She wants it to end, she’ll do anything to make it end, while simultaneously wanting the feeling to last forever.

_Strange._

“Oh!”

Abaddon cries, high and desperate, clawing at Naomi’s hair. Naomi feels the sharp tug of bobby pins being ripped from the damp mess, probably large strands of hair as well. More and more of her hair falls down the back of her neck. The pain is delicious. It means she’s almost brought Abaddon to completion. It means it will soon be her turn.

“Oh angel, sugar, pet,” Abaddon’s words are a jumble of endearments meant as insults. “My graceless angel- Oh, oh, oh!”

The Queen’s desperation gives way to triumphant satisfaction as she grinds brutally into Naomi’s face, yanking mercilessly on the back of her hair. Naomi’s arms have been limp at her sides, but now she brings them up to clasp the supple curve of Abaddon’s ass, drawing her hips even closer. A study in contradictions. Powerful and powerless. Wanting and not wanting.

_So strange._

When Abaddon’s had her fill she releases Naomi’s head and pushes her arms away. She takes a step back and inscrutably regards Naomi where she continues to kneel. Naomi averts her gaze immediately, staring at Abaddon’s red-polished toes where they sink in the rich mud that covers Naomi’s shoes and calves and knees. Their silence stretches unbearably as Naomi waits for her own satisfaction to be granted. She doesn’t doubt that it will be. Abaddon is a tyrant and a sadist, but she knows what she wants and she gets what she wants. And what she wants is Naomi. So Naomi waits. Her faith in this abomination is more concrete than her faith in her Father ever had been, because this abomination is _here_ and she always delivers.

_Blasphemy. Exquisite blasphemy._

Birds are singing again. She feels the moisture hanging in the warm air, thick and oppressive. Sweat rolls off of her.

“Come up here.”

Her Queen commands her back up to her level and Naomi obeys, Abaddon pulling her up by her arms into a tight embrace when she struggles to rise from the viscous ground. The embrace is affectionate, but fiercely possessive. Naomi wants that, too. She wants to be wanted, needed, beyond decency or reason. Something else she never received from her family.

“What do you want, sugar? Do you want me to make you come?”

“Yes,” Naomi whispers, her eyes closing as a small moan escapes her lips. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Petition your Queen, angel. Beg me for it.”

Her Queen laughs at the end of her statement, cruel and vicious and oh so sweet.

_Strange, exquisite blasphemy. Here is my power, now make me feel powerful._

“Please.”

Her tone is respectful, but contained. Naomi will beg, but she will never grovel. She will kneel, but she will not prostrate herself. She thinks it’s what Abaddon likes about her. She will submit, but she will never break.

 _“I am a Queen, and I do not need a King,”_ Abaddon had told her when Naomi had first summoned her, enamored by her power, desperate for guidance, drunk on memories of the Knight slaughtering her enemies in a battle of cosmic significance that Naomi had once cared about. _“Could you be what I need?”_

 _“Yes,”_ Naomi had said, as she says now and will always say to her Queen. And she’s not stupid, fallen as she is. She knows what the creature she’s made her deal-but-not with will do if she tires of her. Naomi will make sure that never happens, because she’s a survivor.

“Please, my liege. Please give me what I need.”

She’s a survivor, and she will never break.

“Good angel.”

Abaddon nips at her ear and brings her hand down between Naomi’s legs. It’s Naomi’s favorite way to get off, and Abaddon knows it. She must be feeling particularly generous today. Abaddon’s fingers tickle and tease her swollen clit and it’s maddening ecstasy. The heat makes it worse.

“You can petition better than that,” Abaddon’s fingers pause abruptly and Naomi chokes on a whimper. “Can’t you?”

“Y-yes, my Queen.”

“So, do it.”

Abaddon’s sultry voice vibrates in the hollow of Naomi’s ear. Sweat-slick cheeks press together and Naomi needs those nimble fingers to start moving again.

“Please,” she pitches her voice slightly higher. “Please, my beautiful Queen.”

“Better,” the fingers blessedly stir back to life. “Keep going, sugar. The better you do, the better I’ll do.”

Naomi pitches her voice even higher and releases a string of nonsense to stroke Abaddon’s ego. Words like _so good_ and _oh_ and _yes_ and _please please please._ Words like _faster_ and _best I’ve ever felt_ and _my Queen, my beautiful Queen, Queen of Hell, Queen of everything, Queen of me._ Every ridiculous utterance rewards her with a better dance of fingers and a greater tingle of blood.

“So close,” Naomi grimaces, overstimulated, pleasure and pain radiating from Abaddon’s fingertips. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Only in these moments does Naomi feel like that celestial being she once was. That howling chasm, that divine wrath, a supernova of heat bursting from her.

“Don’t stop!”

Abaddon doesn’t and Naomi exhales sharply when a swell of pleasure finally takes her over the edge. Abaddon’s fingers don’t stop, her other hand clutching at Naomi’s upper back, and it’s so humid and she’s sore and she can’t stand it, but she loves it she loves it she loves it-

She loves _her._

 _No,_ she thinks as her head clears and her faculties return. _No, you don’t love her. Love gets you nowhere. This is better._

Abaddon’s fingers are still moving and it’s become unbearable, soft fingertips and short nails like sandpaper.

“No more. Please.”

The Queen stops and smirks, removing her hand. Naomi doesn’t need to be told what to say next.

“Thank you.”

Abaddon’s smirk widens, white teeth flashing. A dangerous smile for a dangerous creature.

“Anything for my most loyal subject. Not to mention my most beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Naomi repeats her gratitude automatically. Of course she’s loyal, she’s always been loyal, it’s a part of who she is. True, her loyalty to Abaddon is different from her previous loyalties, chosen as it is. As for her beauty, well, that’s subjective, but if Abaddon wants to believe her beautiful it can only help Naomi in the long run.

_Yes, fine, beautiful. Never tire of me, my Queen._

“My beautiful angel,” Abaddon purrs, pulling Naomi tightly against her, their full breasts pressing together. “My sweet, beautiful angel.”

Naomi’s arms hang awkwardly and her fists clench at her sides. It’s too hot for this. They’re covered in sweat and mud and come. Heat radiates from Abaddon’s shell, the demon writhing and burning inside. Naomi’s human body generates heat as well, but not to the same capacity. She misses her grace with a sudden, intolerable longing that aches in her chest. She fears being without it, about what that means for the inevitable end of her existence. She lets the feeling consume her for a moment before dismissing it. There’s no use in pining for something so irreparably lost. She has to keep moving forward and figure out how to salvage her situation. She has to survive, by any means necessary. She forces her arms up and around to return the demon’s embrace.

“A beautiful thing to corrupt.”

Naomi suppresses a laugh. Abaddon doesn’t know her at all. That’s fine, she doesn’t have to. Naomi just needs her to lead her. Lead her to victory, vengeance, purpose.

She’d been corrupted so long ago, but if Abaddon needs to be the one who corrupts her, she can make her believe that.

_But there’s nothing sweet about me._

She can’t wait until Metatron meets the Queen. She can’t wait to watch from Abaddon’s side as this awful little world, that her Father supposedly loves so much, burns to ashes.

The two imitations of women, ancient and deadly, one who has never been human and one who used to be, hold each other in the heat of the forest as the clouds disappear overhead and life sings around them.


End file.
